


An Exhibition (Sheer Precision)

by hugemind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom!Sam, Fight Training, Fisting, Hand Kink, M/M, Wrist!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-04
Updated: 2008-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hugemind/pseuds/hugemind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At sixteen, Sam noticed that Dean has pretty wrists. So it makes no sense that now he'd almost kill to see them covered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Exhibition (Sheer Precision)

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, [ ](http://tj-smartz.livejournal.com/profile)[ **tj_smartz** ](http://tj-smartz.livejournal.com/) posted this a promo pic with Jensen wearing leather cuffs and I suddenly acquired a wrist!kink. She also more than made up for her evil enabler ways by beta'ing the fic. Then I tinkered with it a little afterwards, so the mistakes are all mine. The title is snagged from the Judas Priest song _Hell Bent For Leather_. Originally posted to LJ on June 4, 2008.

 

 

It's one of those late afternoons when dusk is a pink arc over the western horizon and the Winchester family have found a big field standing on the edge of a back-road nowhere. One of those days when they've been riding in the car all day and Dad decides that the day shouldn't be wasted on soothing the hurts of the previous hunt. One of those _Okay boys, show me what you're got_ sparring hours.

And it comes to Sam then, when they're getting ready, he lacing up his worn sneakers and Dean taping up his fingers, knuckles and wrists, that Dean's wrists are pretty. Proportional to the muscle above them, thick enough to make Dean's hand not look freakishly big in comparison but slender enough to make Sam want to lick the pulse points inside them. He has no idea what to do with that realization or with himself, what to think, only hope that Dad didn't notice the hitch in his breath.

Dean socks him in the jaw twice before Sam snaps out of his haze, the white tape glowing in the developing twilight and drawing Sam's eyes to the skin above and below them.

They're not real punches, just taps to let Sam know the real danger, the strength behind Dean's raised and coiled arms, the lean body of a fighter behind them. Dean raises his eyebrows in worry, his lips pulling into a silent, thin question, and Dad sitting on the wooden fence yells at Sam to pay attention. If Sam's ribs weren't bruised from a ghost throwing him face-on through a table last night, he'd be mortified and blushing, but now he uses the bruises as an excuse to be slow, to be slightly out of it.

Dean gives him room, and he straightens his back and winces at the small pull on his side, arm curling around himself to supposedly protect the fragile bones. His eyes are cast down, staring at the green grass, fresh and alive, unable to look at Dean because Dean would _know_ right away what kind of a pervert his little brother is. But Dean is there, at his side, pressing warm palms on his shoulder and back, and Sam can't but close his eyes and hide.

"Sam?"

The tape makes Dean's fingers stiff and they're at odd angles against Sam's body, reminding Sam of what he's always seen but not _seen_. Long fingers tightening around the butt of a gun, patching up wounds with a needle, thread and gauze. Christ, Dean licking them clean after messy burgers and fries. Sam slouches back down, Dean's palms taking his weight, and hopes that his cock gets with the program and stays down.

"You okay, son?"

Dad's touch on his shoulder breaks through Sam's lost thoughts, not rough or overtly gentle, just _Dad_ and still unfamiliar enough. He can't think about Dean's hands when Dad sounds concerned.

"Did you crack a rib last night?" Dad inquires, looks straight at him, prods his side with sure hands. "You should've said something. We need to know if you're not hundred percent."

Sam grimaces a little, the pain not really that bad, but he keeps up the act. Can't do anything else with Dad hovering there, and it almost feels nice to have that attention, no matter that it's only because they think he's hurt.

"I'm fine. It's just-- I don't know. We've been sitting in the car all day--" Sam looks up and Dean frowns, suspicion written over his face, but Sam ignores it, has to. He's tall and gets cramps even when not hurt, it's not a lie. Not a lie. "I'll be okay."

It's a day edging into night when Sam lies to his family, Dad for once spares him and tells him to stretch his muscles while he himself spars with Dean. A day when Sam learns a lesson about distracting your opponent better than ever before by watching Dean's hands the entire time, white tape as the only fixed point in Sam's spinning world.

 

\----

Sam knows he's leaving hunting behind in a few months, a normal life finally within his grasp. School books instead of grimoires; pens and notebooks to get him through tests, not exorcisms; and Latin will be just big words to fight human evil instead of old magic used against the supernatural.

They're cozying it up in San Francisco of all places, just for one weekend, a cut-and-dry hunt on the side. Dad's thinking he's treating them with a casual Super-8 vacation close to the ocean, taking a load off, but Sam's skin is tingling from the secrets he's keeping, and the salty California air isn't making it any easier.

He's a walking, talking lie, squirming in his skin from the guilt and wrongness of his thoughts.

On Friday night, Sam argues with Dad about the job. He's sharper with his words than usual, the fear of accidentally dropping his college bomb spurring him on, making him want to hole up in their room. Step outside only when the Impala's nose is pointing straight East again.

On Saturday, Dad puts him and Dean on a fact-finding mission to interview some rich kids about a haunting on a local campus. Their target is some popular club and _no fights_ is the number one policy, but with Dean hustling pool bruises are always a possibility, so it falls on Sam to be the level-headed one. The one who blends in seamlessly and talks the language of college kids. _Jesus._

Sam wants no part of this but he can't skirt the responsibility, so he attacks the task with more zeal than he does anything hunting-related. He heads for the mall, Dean tagging along to check out the college chicks, but Sam's doing a little fact-finding of his own. His concentration is on the conversations he hears around himself, on how everyone dresses, the words they use, how the kids rib on their friends.

His stealthy recon tells him that accessorizing is totally the way to go now, so he shoulders Dean into one of the stores, intent on finding some clothes to help them look the part later that evening. Dean gives him an uninterested shrug when Sam explains how important it is in places like these to fit in, but Dean's never really cared that much about what others think. Dean hands over his current fake credit card without complaining too much, but only because it's for a hunt and because the girl behind the register is a real looker with a wide, shy smile saved for Dean.

In the quiet of their motel room, they pull on their oldest jeans, soft and worn just right, fashionably torn at the knees. The t-shirts are new, big logos and inane slogans, god-awful colors and so far out of the bounds of practical that Dad frowns at them. But they stretch over muscle like second skin, half a size too small, the look just perfect on Dean.

When Sam's done pulling the new elephant hair bracelets on his right wrist and is fighting on a matching necklace, drawn tight around his throat, he sees the pair of brown leather cuffs Sam bought for Dean adorning Dean's wrists. He swallows hard against the necklace, steals glances at Dean, already tasting the words to convince Dean to leave his heavy jacket behind.

They make contact like planned, gulp down some drinks with their new friends and get the info they came looking for. Except Sam completely misses the part about the spirit in the campus, the weird stuff that's happened to students and frat guys in the dark alleys nearby, how the spirit looked. What he doesn't miss is how the leather cuffs curl around Dean's wrists, tight and unmoving.

The night goes horribly wrong when Dean cons one of the rich kids into a game, _Drinks don't come cheap, Sammy m'boy_ which is just an excuse because their new friends have been throwing their money around and buying the rounds so far.

Maybe it's the two beers thick in Sam's veins, doing their damage because even if extra inches make up for lacking years, they don't cover for lacking experience, but Sam just can't take his eyes off Dean's wrists. He keeps watching how Dean pulls the leather cuffs higher, sometimes pushes them back down, whatever is best for the next shot. The small holes of the decoration rotate around Dean's wrist, the seam peeking out from underneath Dean's arm with a flash of tender skin.

The leather looks new and hard, so smooth that Sam wants to run his fingers over it, over the dot-cross pattern. He wants to taste it, lick over Dean's skin and over the leather. It's not normal, can't be, but he just can't stop thinking about it, and his necklace bites into his throat when he tries to calm down and breathe normally. The worst part is that Dean notices Sam looking, makes his hands move slower, their intention clearer, like he's giving Sam a lesson about the finer points of playing pool.

And Sam _knows_ they look like they belong to the club, but his gut becomes a tight-tangled mess, a cold lump that's waiting to burst from the seams and spill his secrets. The only comfort he has is knowing that soon enough he's going to blend in a club just like this one and really _be_ normal.

On Sunday noon, Sam slumps down on the backseat with more baggage than he came in with. He breaths deep as the Impala heads back out on the highway.

 

\----

Dean's been doing this regularly ever since Saint Louis and the whole shapeshifter incident, pulling over on the roadside to spar if the road is empty and the day coming to an end. Each time fills Sam's heart with a slow, fluttering desire that was born on a night just like this one, nurtured in the Impala, surviving everything.

But now is the first time since Dean's heart was damaged. The first time when Sam's been able to look at Dean freely during sparring; when he doesn't need to be afraid of kissing Dean accidentally and then taking a beating or being left behind.

Dean's not so particular with the tape anymore, winding it quickly around his knuckles once, then twice more to protect the skin. Then a few coils around his wrists, slightly tighter to give them support. He looks at Sam while doing it, a ritual that's in his muscle memory, leaving his fingers untaped.

It's like the first time all over again, but now there's no Dad and Dean's eyes are sharper, his smile knowing and Sam sure as hell can't pretend to have cramps anymore. He tries, oh God, he tries to move like he's been taught, to duck and weave around Dean, to sneak in a left hook and an uppercut, but his eyes keep darting down to Dean's hands. Right where you're not supposed to look in a fight.

"Troubles keepin' your eyes on the prize there, Sammy?" Dean grins.

"Mmmh?" Sam looks up.

Dean kicks him with a knee in the back of his left thigh, lightly, Dean's boot swishing through the grass on the field. It reminds Sam how fast Dean can move except he's already supposed to know that, be prepared.

Sam's knee buckles and he goes down on it, bracing against the dry ground, pale-green blades of grass that are starting to get ready for winter.

Fuck no, he's been here before, entranced by Dean's wrists, the effortless roll of them, the subconscious shake after a punch. Sam knows this, knows what Dean does with his hands, and he can pull himself together for a while. Not like he's still the kid that just realized that he wants to be on his knees, licking his brother's wrists.

Sam shakes his hair from his eyes and smirks, voice low. "Nah, I got my eyes exactly where I want them."

He stares at Dean with night-dark eyes, goes for a quick jab that Dean ducks, then simply grabs Dean's torso when he's still off-balance, not even meaning to get a hit in. They tumble down on the ground, tussle and Sam straddles Dean's hips. He plays it cool, safer to be horny, after one of Dean's blowjobs than to molest his freaking wrists.

A slow grind of his ass against Dean's dick and they're both on the same page. Dean's fingers scramble with the zipper of Sam's jeans as Sam slides forward to sit gently on Dean's chest, to hover over his head. The cool air on Sam's cock is a relief after the confines of denim, but Dean's hot, wet mouth is always better.

Sam supports Dean's head with his hands, feels the short hair tickle the sides of his fingers as Dean licks his cockhead and sucks him down. It's a tight fit at that angle, Dean's throat working, breathing hard and labored, his fingers digging into Sam's back for extra support. He's rocking to meet Dean's mouth when Dean lets him go.

"No, Dean." Sam untangles his left hand and reaches behind his back to chase away Dean's hands from Dean's own cock. "Not this time." He presses down at the base, keeps Dean from coming, wants to wipe the smugness from Dean's face just this once.

Dean relents and works Sam's cock with his best moves, his teeth and tongue pushing Sam closer to the edge. Sam drags Dean's left hand up over Dean's head, pins it to the ground so that he's supporting Dean's head with his right. He keeps his eyes on Dean's wrist: Sam's fingers reach around it, drown it in his palm, the bones feeling so fragile.

It takes only a moment for Sam to come, to shoot down Dean's throat. Dean swallows it all.

Sam rolls away, attempting to pull his jeans back up when Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leaps up. "Nice try, Sammy, but you're not gonna get out of this that easily. Get your ass back up."

Dean beats him, of course, Sam's knees still a little weak from coming hard, his reaction time a little slow. Sam should've seen how the blowjob gives Dean the advantage but he doesn't really care, he's just glad to go down on the ground with Dean's weight on top of him.

They're still breathing hard when they walk back to the car, Dean's cock a swollen line against the denim of his jeans. Sam grins to himself, faces the hood of the Impala, palms on the cool, shiny metal. He cants his hips up in invitation.

Dean pushes him down, smiling victoriously, and works their jeans down their thighs just enough to give them room. The lube on Dean's fingers has no time to warm up before Dean's getting him ready, smearing a wet trail in. Dean places one hand next to Sam's on the hood, the other on Sam's hip and Dean fucks into him, quick and easy. Sam shifts under the thrusts, shuffles his hands until his wrist is rubbing against Dean's, the sweaty drag less slick than Dean's cock in his ass.

 

\----

Handcuffs don't do it for Sam, the impersonal metal like an insult to Dean's elegant wrists. The idea of the handcuffs chafing -- not clinging to skin like an extra layer of protection -- drives Sam crazy. Was one of the reasons Sam objected to Dean's plan of helping Deacon.

He watches Dean change the plates of the Impala, their equivalent for going Yemen-deep, the previous redness on Dean's wrists turned into dark brown-blue, even deep purple at some points. Sam's bruises are doing the same, but on Dean it looks worse.

"You wanna play with them?" Dean asks when they're back inside their motel room, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his fingers. His eyebrows are raised slightly, gaze heated and playful. "The way you were looking at them earlier..."

"Nah, man. They weren't what I was looking at."

Sam grabs Dean's left hand, twines the fingers with his right and brings it up. Dean's skin isn't broken, damn near though, and Sam frowns. He presses his lips against the marks, dry and gentle; the skin isn't burning, isn't even warmer than normal, just discolored.

The press turns into a kiss, lips moving, wetting skin until Sam runs his tongue across the inside of Dean's wrist. It's more than he has ever allowed himself to do, the fear of Dean and all this being just an elaborate fantasy, broken just as he's about to taste it. Dean's breath hitches but nothing else happens.

Sam keeps the touch light and soothing, opens his mouth further and presses his tongue flat against the delicate skin and bones. He wants to wrap his mouth around the whole wrist but it's too much and Dean's not a freaking chew toy anyway, so he just settles with kissing his way around it, licking and sucking at the bones when his tongue strays over them.

He doesn't mean to close his eyes, but that's what happens and when he opens them, Dean looks back at him with green eyes gone wide, a little wild but not dark. It's not shock but something unfamiliar. Sam lets his brother's arm go and eyes the other hand slightly fisted at Dean's side, the handcuffs still in Dean's grip. Dean doesn't offer it to him, doesn't back away either so Sam steps around Dean, reaches in and brushes his thumb quick and feather-light against the bruises. Sam doesn't look back when he heads straight for the bathroom to breathe deep and wait for the trip to his fantasy world to end.

Dean's waiting for him naked and hard when Sam comes back, and he crawls up on the bed, intent on licking and sucking Dean right to the edge of coming. He does just that, then keeps Dean there until his own cock needs to feel more friction. Dean moans _Yeah, Sammy_ when he settles between Dean's legs and follows the wet trails of his tongue with his cock.

Dean arches his hips up when Sam pushes in, Sam's grip on Dean's legs as leverage, and he's meeting Sam thrust for thrust, his ass clenching around Sam's cock so very tight. Sam bites his lips to keep the moans inside, grounds himself by clinging onto Dean's thighs with his sweat-slippery palms.

Dean hisses sharply, his dark, imploring eyes slipping down to look where Sam's fingers bite into his muscles, then up to ask Sam _Is this what you wanted?_ The question is weird, a relict of an old conversation Sam can't be bothered to remember when he's drowning in Dean. But he shifts his eyes down, back to where Dean's looking now, where Sam's holding Dean's straining muscles down.

There are large, red thumb-prints on the insides of his thighs, on the soft skin above the knees. A string of marks on the outside from Sam's slipped and re-tightened fists, blue and purple bruises come morning, sisters to the ones on Dean's wrists. Shit, it's not at all what he wanted. They fuck hard, sure, even bite sometimes, but the meaning is always in the act itself, in sharp teeth and shows of strength, not in the marks they leave behind. Not in the mottled flesh Sam licked and sucked a moment ago.

Sam's grip falters from shock, hot-sweaty and slick, and he drops Dean's legs, his hips thumping down in the hollow arms of gravity, Sam's cock driving deep inside Dean on the way down.

Dean comes then, surprise in the crook of his lips, a passing touch of fear in his eyes, his come painted over both their chests. Dean's groan and Sam's shocked gasp echo around the room in stereo.

Sam's horrified of what he's done to his beautiful brother who never stopped him. Who let Sam bruise him up when he thought it was what Sam wanted. Who doesn't know what his _wrists_ , unmarked and unharmed, do to Sam.

Sam pulls out, still hard himself but not so much anymore, "Dean, I didn't... Not this, not like this. I'm sorry."

He flees into the bathroom, first tears of shame stuck to the corners of his eyes, too much trust on his shoulders. By the time he leans into the bathroom door, sags down against it, his cock has gone limp. It's a relief, knowing for sure that he didn't enjoy marking -- hurting -- his brother like a jealous lover. Dean's not his to take but to keep when allowed, worship him in those moments he's given consent.

It takes a minute, but Sam calms down. This won't be their end, Sam knows, it'd take more than that, much more, but Sam still has to live with himself, the love he's felt for his brother since he remembers, the dark-wrong lust ever since that stop for training on a remote field at sun-down.

Dean knocks on the door, "Sam?" Makes his name a question, an order and a plea, a mix that only Dean knows how to do, so familiar.

Sam breathes silently, wills Dean to understand, and after a moment Dean shuffles away from the door. "Your princess-ass better not hog the shower all night."

And Sam feels better already. Dean's smart, intuitive, _still here_ , he'll figure this one out and tease Sam for his weird hang-ups like there was no freaking out involved. All Sam needs is to hold it together, make Dean see he wants to give Dean everything he is, make Dean realize he won't betray that absolute trust Dean inherently has in his little brother.

 

\----

Two days after Sam's small breakdown, Dean covers the blooming bruises with leather cuffs when they head out. The discoloration almost peeks out from underneath, stealing Sam's attention while they question people for their new case; while they eat lunch at the nearby diner; while Dean's hands rest on the Impala's steering wheel.

When they return to their motel room, the door has barely slammed shut behind Dean, taking the darkening evening with it, when Sam pushes him against the doorframe. Sam kisses Dean with bites and growls, desperately rubbing his crotch against Dean's hip. He strips Dean of his jacket, reveals the Henley whose long sleeves Dean has bunched up to his elbows. Sam strokes his palm up and down Dean's arm, the touch lingering around the cuff that's decorated with a familiar dot-cross pattern.

Sam wants this so much.

He drops to his knees, waits for Dean to sink his fingers into his hair, then grabs Dean's hand. Licks a stripe along the edge of the cuff. Sam sweeps his thumb from knuckles to wrist, edges it under the cuff, strokes the leather with his other fingers, presses his other hand firmly against the bulge of Dean's jeans.

Dean's hard under Sam's hand, his struggled breathing audible. "What do you want, Sam?"

"This, all of this." Sam's tongue traces up Dean's palm, over the lines, briefly licking the pulse point until running wet trails over the broken-soft leather. The taste of leather and salty skin make Sam all the way hard. "Dean, please. I wanna feel it."

"What do you mean, Sam? Want me to wrap the leather around your dick? Jerk you off like that?" There's an edge of honest confusion in Dean's tone, hidden under the low, controlled cadence.

God, Sam hadn't even thought about _that_ , hard leather against his dick, Dean's fingers wrapped around it. He wants it, wants it some day, but not today. "Jesus, Dean..."

"Come on, Sam. I can't do it unless you say it out loud."

"Your-- shit, your wrists, Dean. They're so fucking pretty." Sam feels like he's going to die either from embarrassment or arousal. "Want it in me. Your hand. All the way to the cuff."

Sam looks up then, sees Dean's eyes widen, a frown knotting his brow, feels Dean's muscles tensing. "Fuck, _Sam_. You can't be serious."

"I am. Just go slow and I'll be fine." Sam paints another wet stripe over the leather and skin, then looks up again. "Please."

It takes a moment, two, but Dean relaxes a little, cock twitching under Sam's palm when he rubs it. "Okay, Sammy. But I don't wanna hurt you."

"You won't," Sam whispers, a shiver of thrill working down his spine.

They tumble onto the bed, like on any other adrenaline-fueled night, clothes stripped as they go. Hungry touches and filthy words fill their senses. Sam tongues Dean's cock, laves at the head, tasting precome. Dean's breathing is shallow, fast, and Sam stops before Dean comes, wants Dean to fuck him later.

Sam rolls them over, Dean landing on top, his trained muscles against Sam's body. Sam's not above begging for Dean. "Do it, Dean. Want it so bad."

Dean shuffles a little, settles between Sam's spread thighs, pulls Sam's hips over his knees. He yanks and shoves the cuff down, closer to his palm. Sam can't stop a happy laugh from escaping.

"You really think that'll make a difference? It's an inch and not even in the hardest part."

"Shut up, Sam." Dean's brows are knitted slightly, trying to press the cuff into place half around his right palm.

Sam smiles, knows the cuff will ride up until it's tight against Dean's wrist or his arm, until Dean's so far inside him that nothing else matters. He shivers as he thinks how Dean's really going to do this for him. Then Dean presses a lubed finger in, makes two and three quickly, nothing Sam hasn't felt before.

Dean keeps adding lube, spreading Sam open more, concentration clear on his face, a small shake going through his body. Sam watches him, watches Dean's hands, secure on Sam's thigh and in him. It's like Sam's coming home, keeping nothing secret anymore.

"You really sure about this?" Dean asks, pins Sam down with sharp, watchful eyes.

All Sam manages is a breathless _yes_ , then Dean's pressing into him, steady and slow. It feels like the stretch is never going to end. But then the edge of the cuff catches the rim of his hole, wide open, and he pictures Dean's hand, his wrist being wrapped up tightly in leather, in _Sam_. Tucked away and hidden from the world, all Sam's to keep now.

Sam grasps for words, fails, tries to keep breathing and rocks back against Dean, just to feel Dean move inside him, the hard leather pressing against his ass. The stretch-burn is sweet and slow, Dean's knuckles rubbing against Sam's prostate just right.

"So good, Dean." He can't keep rocking back and move again like this, muscles tired in odd places, so he rises up on his left elbow and reaches down between his legs with his right hand.

Dean's hard, cock twitching under the brush of Sam's fingers, precome wetting the smooth head when Sam sweeps his thumb over it. Dean looks at him, eyes dark and wild, a whimper-moan on his lips.

"Not yet," Sam pleads and finds Dean's arm.

He runs his palm down the taut muscles, over the cuff, and touches himself where they are joined. His ass is hot and stretched tight around Dean's hand, the leather cuff snug against his lube-slick hole, not even a sliver of Dean's skin open to Sam's touch.

"Sam." Dean's breathless, pleading, a strange mixture of awe and fear, but Sam understands.

This is every ounce of their trust and love balanced against need and pain. He never thought it would be this good, that he'd be so full of emotion.

Sam wraps his palm over the leather cuff, pumps Dean's hand slowly in and out of himself in tiny slow rolls. "Let me come like this, Dean. Please." Sam frees Dean's arm, fingers lingering on the cuff, settles back down on the bed and fists the sweat-sticky sheets. "I want this, to come from your hand. Then... want you to come in me."

Dean says nothing, just twists his wrist, and Sam clenches around it with a moan. He's close to coming, a need whispering in his blood _just a little more, little more_. Dean pulls out further, his hand stretching the muscle before pushing back in, knuckles sweeping over Sam's prostate.

After that, Dean just rocks his fist, sending waves of want over Sam's body. The rhythm is hypnotic, building the need higher until everything stops. There's only Dean inside him, moving carefully, lovingly.

Sam hits the point where the pleasure crests, where there's no turning back. He rides the wave, arches off the bed, groans and pushes himself down on Dean's hand. He comes over his torso, is drunk on the orgasm-high and relaxes around Dean's fist.

"Dean, come on. Your turn."

Dean extracts his hand slowly, wipes it on the sheets and scrambles to push Sam's legs up and Sam doesn't fight it, would never fight Dean like that, Dean's hold the only thing that keeps his tired limbs in place.

And Dean's in, thrusting in deep, all the way, balls to ass. It's odd how it doesn't burn like usual, how the stretch is _less_ than what he's used to. He clamps down on Dean's cock as much as he can. That's it, Dean comes whispering Sam's name on every sharp thrust until he's done.

They fall on the bed, boneless and warm in their glow. Sam feels Dean's come trying to seep out, but he desperately wants to keep it inside him, keep Dean there forever now that he has him like this. He battles against the pull of sleep, but he's so happy and sated that he loses quickly.

It's a night bordering on morning, low light lurking outside, when Sam rouses from sleep to feel Dean heavy and warm against his side, still where he slumped down after cleanup. He picks up Dean's right hand gently and moves it over his heart, feels Dean spread his fingers against Sam's skin. Sam keeps his hand wrapped loosely over Dean's wrist and falls back asleep.

 

_\--end--_


End file.
